


The Stillness is a Burn

by lavishsqualor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:04:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavishsqualor/pseuds/lavishsqualor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Dean's stuck in a full leg cast, Sam's unconscious as hell. What else is he supposed to do but wait it out—in bed—with Sam?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stillness is a Burn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mistyzeo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/gifts).



They're alone in the cabin. Bobby left with a _Tell your brother hey when he wakes up._ Something tells Dean that's not going to be anytime too soon.

With Sam out for the count upstairs in the bedroom, Dean feels completely alone. He tries to stay busy, which means spending a good part of the morning hobbling around the main floor. He unpacks some of the stuff Bobby brought over, pretending to make the place "home," before sitting on the couch to take in some midday infomercials. Eventually, though, his worry gets the best of him.

It's a bitch to figure out the logistics, especially without proper crutches—they were the least of his worries when he was hopping into the ambulance and trying to escape the human-snacking Leviathan—but somehow he manages to lug his gimp self up the stairs. Along the way, he stubs his good toe something fierce, more than once. Subsequently, he swears a blue streak, loudly, and subsequently finds himself whispering, "Sorry, Sammy." Then he remembers that Sam's out-the-fuck-cold and nothing will wake him. That only serves to slow his ascent further.

As he shimmies down the hall, Dean wishes he could hear some telltale sign that Sam's alright. Normally, a sleeping Sam produces all sorts of sounds—loud sleep breathing, little moans and grunts during dreams, plenty of toss turn sheet-shifting friction—but the room is quiet. An unconscious Sam is nothing like a sleeping Sam. 

Dean's flooded with an instantaneous sense of relief when he peers into the room and sees him, taking it all in as he walks toward to the bed. Sam's on his back and completely still, but his chest is rising up-down over and again with each breath. The hair across his forehead is matted down, crinkled, dried from dampness and not doing much to cover the bandage there. 

When he sits at the edge of the bed, Dean realizes that he really shouldn't be relieved. Of course Sam's breathing; he's alive, and the injuries he's sustained aren't actually threatening his life—he's pulled past that—they're threatening his _sanity_.

He grabs ahold of his cast, with two hands, because the thing's surprisingly heavier than one would expect, and heaves it up to join the rest of him, and Sam, on the bed. Turning onto his side and settling into the itch scratchy blanket, he breathes deep with thankfulness, if not relief.

Sam's drooling a little bit, just a couple of drops rolling lazily down his chin and a small puddle on the pillow beside his neck, and Dean wants to get closer. He wants to run his hand through Sam's hair and muss it up further. He wants to crawl under the blankets and cozy up close to Sam, feel his warmth and the steady beat of his heart, a reminder that even if Sam's not _okay_ , at least he's still here.

Day one, Dean thinks to himself. The first of who the hell knows how many. Fuck my life. 

 

On the third day, Dean doesn't even make it downstairs. Sure, he gets up to piss and to fill his glass with water from the bathroom tap, but other than that, he stays in bed. With Sam. 

When he first wakes up, Dean refuses to remember where he is or why Sam isn't already up and about. He closes his eyes, wiggles his body a couple inches closer to Sam—which is difficult with the leg-trapping beast that he still isn't used to—and imagines it's the good old days. He pretends it's the _real_  old days, when he and Sam still shared a bed most nights and when they weren't so often holed up in one place, on the run and hiding, but just drifting from town to town, from one insipid motel to the next. 

Later, when the sun is shining bright through the little dormer window, and he can no longer pretend, Dean rolls onto his side to face Sam and reality. He kicks his cast in front of himself and toes at Sam's gigantor feet under the blankets.

"How are you doing, you leggy bastard?" He rocks forward even further so his elbow is pressed up against Sam's side. "Bet you're dreaming about pretty ladies and awesome kills, aren't ya? Reliving the glory days."

He reminisces, aloud, about some of the good times, like when Sam took Gordon's head off with razor wire and when they got to gank two gods on Christmas day with fucking Christmas trees, and about some of the crazier things, like Ghostfacers and cursed rabbit's feet. Two hours and numerous stories later, Dean swears to himself that he's not fretting over Sam and that there's nothing _wrong_  with talking to an unconscious person. Didn't he see something on Dr. Sexy about conversations with people in comas helping to bring them back?

 

A week, it's been, and the only things in the cabin that Dean's more familiar with than Sam's profile and his back—because Dean's not dumb enough to forget to roll Sam onto his side for a few hours each day—are the ceiling and the far wall of the bedroom. 

It's not a bad view, actually. The wall's a rich walnut. There are hundreds of knots mottling the boards, huge wiry twists and tiny-small thumbprints. Dean's made a habit of counting them, though he's only made it up to two hundred before his attention deficit whatever kicks in and his focus automatically shifts back to Sammy. The ceiling's a lighter wood, cedar, maybe, or oak, and while it's low, and Dean's sure Sam will bang his head on the doorframe if he doesn't watch it when he wakes up, he likes it. The exposed beams may have plumes of whispery, white spiderwebs gathered in the corners, but they still represent quality craftsmanship. 

There's the window, too. It's small and covered in so much grime that the view is almost completely obscured, but it allows Dean a sense of space and a sense of time. Hours, days, spent lying on the bed next to Sam, and sometimes the only way he knows a day's even passed is by the deep purple and dusky lavender that seem to blot out the few stars that the window frames, followed by an hour of bright warmth signifying the once-again-rising sun.

Dean tries to add some distance between himself and the bed, he really does. He starts eating again, actually preparing meals rather than subsiding on beef jerky and PowerBars, and the day before, he'd spent the entire afternoon sprawled out on the couch in the main room, absorbing the dramatic story lines of three whole telenovelas.

The entire time he's downstairs, though, he keeps thinking about Sam. He keeps wondering if Sam is comfortable, he keeps worrying that maybe Sam will wake up and he won't be there. It's not worth it. It's much easier to spend his time with Sam. At least when he's _with_  Sam, he's not worrying about him. At least not quite as much.

 

It's not until the tenth day spent in Whitefish that Sam shows any signs of wakefulness. When he does, Dean's there, of course. 

At first, it's just a slow turn of his head, a languid stretch of his neck. 

Dean embarrasses himself with the sharp intake of breath that's held too long, released only when Sam rolls his head back to the position it's been in for days. Dean breathes deep. "You moved a second ago, dude, but now you're going to feign unconsciousness? I'm totally onto you." 

After fifteen minutes and no more movement on Sam's part, Dean wills himself to get his heart rate back in check.

 

Dean can't help but thank the God he knows has long since left the planet when Sam opens his eyes the next day. It's a soft flutter of the eyelashes that Dean never lets out of his peripheral vision that catches his attention. He rolls toward Sam, not too close, but closer than the space he's required himself to maintain most of the time. So when Sam opens an eye, and then the next, Dean's the first thing that he sees. 

Dean swears he sees a small smile crack Sam's lips, but it's gone near instantly. 

Recognition is a slow thing. 

 

Sam's really out of it for about a day and a half. It's, like, the drunkest Dean's ever seen him. 

At first his eyes open and promptly close, every hour, almost on the hour. Dean spends the intermediate fifty-nine and a half minutes not getting too excited, and definitely _not_ talking to Sam. 

The next morning, though, Sam actually wakes up. He full on climbs over Dean _and_ his broken leg to get up to use the bathroom. Dean's never been more rudely awoken nor more excited about it. 

Sam could have appendicitis, and the kid would pretend it was only a small stomachache. So it doesn't surprise Dean when Sam attempts to pretend that nothing is wrong and that he _hasn't_ been in a goddamn coma for a week and a half. It's like he doesn't even notice that his legs can't keep up with his upper body as he ambles around the cabin in an attempt to clean up the mess Dean had made while he was "asleep." 

When he can finally convince Sam to join him on the couch and _relax_ , Dean relaxes, too. 

He leans into a stretch designed to hide his moving his bad leg a little further down the couch, closer to Sam, so that the sole of his foot is pressed up against Sam's overly warm thigh. "See, Sammy? Isn't this nice?" He winks in a completely noncreepy way. "Nothing wrong with taking it easy and just laying back every now and then."

Sam pffts, but he also sinks a little deeper into the well-worn couch. "Whatever you say, Dean."

"Damn straight."

Dean settles in, content and comfortable. It's easy.  

Except when he turns to look at Sam after not hearing any laughter or cutting remarks about his choice of television programming for a while, and Sam's not really there. When Dean catches Sam staring off into the middle distance, not the TV or out one of the windows but seemingly _nowhere_ , he's not sure whether Sam's just having a semiconscious, just-got-out-of-a-coma moment, or whether he's spending time with his new buddy Lucifer. It completely ruins the whole relaxation thing.

Usually, Dean will stretch forward to grab ahold of Sam's hand and squeeze the still-healing wound there. He doesn't like hurting Sammy, but he does, because if hurting Sam's the only way to get him to _come back_ , Dean's damn well going to do it. 

 

It's the end of the second week, and Sam is completely back to normal. Well, as normal as Sam _is_. 

It's completely normal for Sam to make it his mission to coddle Dean senseless, for him to forget that he should put himself first instead of fussing over Dean now that he's rejoined the land of the living.

That doesn't mean Dean likes putting up with it, though.

Once again, Sam's stopped listening to Dean about the value of relaxation, and he's over in the kitchen doing who the hell knows what. He clears his throat. When Dean looks over, Sam's standing there with his lost puppy look.

"Can I get you anything, Dean?" Sam tucks an ever-loose piece of hair back behind his ear and it immediately falls forward. "I mean, are you hungry? Or thirsty? Or is there–"

Dean responds with a grunt. 

Like usual, Sam brings him a cold beer and a sandwich. When he sits next to Dean, Sam not very sneakily fluffs the pillow underneath Dean's leg. 

While he doesn't like it, Dean can't help but put up with everything about Sam. He always gives in. Sam babying him is no exception. 

That doesn't mean he doesn't put up a fight. 

"That's enough, Sam." Dean tries to pull away from Sam, because Sam's got his hands on the exposed area of Dean's foot, massaging the toes gently, but it's hard to pull a stiff solid, thirty plus mass away quickly. 

"Does your whole leg have to suffer just because you won't acknowledge the importance of foot health?" Sam's lips quirk to the side. He knows that Dean knows the importance of good foot health; Dad always stressed how soldiers were nothing without their feet. "Exactly. And since you're not able to get down here and help your own circulation, you can at least let me."

Sam continues to wiggle his oversized fingers between Dean's toes, twist tugging. Since Dean can't challenge him—Sam's _right_ —he turns his face back down to the newspaper on his lap in an attempt to hide his smile. 

 

Sam continues to try to get some "work" done around the cabin. Dean doesn't understand. 

Dean's come out of his fair share of comas—and none were near as long as Sam's—and when he did, he felt like pure shit. He'd wanted to spend at least a week curled up under blankets and vegging out. He knows that Sam operates differently than him, that he always likes to throw himself headlong back into the hunt, but this time it's different. This time, Dean's seriously at risk of losing Sam to Lucifer forever, so he's not going to put up with it. 

"Sammy. Put that fucking mop down right now and get your ass over here." Dean heaves a breath of relief when Sam immediately raises his head to give him a look of disdain. Bitchface number eleventy-three, one of Dean's favorites. 

"Dean–"

"Do you think Rufus would've wanted you to spend the time you should be recuperating slaving over dust mites?" Dean tips his head to push the point home. "No, I didn't think so."

Sam lowers the mop back into the dirty bucket of sloshy-gray water and leans against the table. "I don't know–"

"Seriously, Sam. C'mere." Dean cuts him off before he can even start. He's pleasantly surprised that was all the fight Sam had in him, if not slightly worried that he gave in so quickly, when Sam walks across the cabin to come join Dean on the couch. 

The deep red faux-leather creaks under Sam's added weight and Dean immediately relaxes into it. He hands the ancient, gigantic remote to Sam. "Here. You can even pick what we watch. Consider me open to new things."

Sam smiles as he takes the remote and, perhaps begrudgingly, begins to flip through the eight and a half channels. He settles on something about the mating behaviors of cuttlefish. Dean's out in moments.

When he wakes, it's because something's got his broken leg. Sam has always been able to feel Dean's eyes on him, so when Dean cracks both eyelids to find him stuffing a pillow under his cast, it's no surprise that Sam immediately looks up, jolting guiltily. 

Dean leans forward and catches Sam's wrist in his hand. He tugs Sam toward him, but Sam doesn't give. 

"Sorry, Dean. I was just going to adjust your leg." Sam tries to pull his hand back.

Dean doesn't let go. He rubs his fingers over the stitches in Sam's palm and his thumb over the smooth skin on the inside of Sam's wrist. He can feel Sam's heart beating there, strong, and it's good. 

Sam's not pulling away anymore, and when Dean slides his tongue out and across the seal of his lips, something changes in Sam's expression. He gives Dean a look that screams _What?_

"Dean, let go. I'm just trying to– You've gotta stre–"

"Sam, stop." 

"But it's broken, and you haven't been doing anything. You have to take care of–"

Dean stops him before he can talk any more bullshit. He refuses to let Sam continue to pretend that his leg is what this is about. 

"Sammy." He tugs harder and Sam falls forward into the vee of Dean's wide-spread legs. "Six years and I've lost you twice, _almost_ lost you countless times. I thought I'd lost you again, and I, I–"

This time Sam cuts him off. He pushes himself up tight against Dean's chest, and then, slowly, he raises his injured hand to stroke his thumb along Dean's jaw. "You haven't lost me, Dean. I'm right here." 

The press of Sam's lips against his is all the reminder that Dean needs. When Sam parts his mouth and swipes his tongue across Dean's lower lip, Dean opens wide to meet him. The pressure of Sam's overgrown body against his and the feel of Sam's tongue and the taste that's all _Sam_ make Dean think that maybe all the shit they've been through has been worth it, if it's finally gotten them here. 

Sam's moving in closer and the heat Dean feels emanating from him makes everything feel urgent. Finally, finally. 

Dean imagines that sex with a full-leg cast would be awkward no matter where it occurred, but on a couch seems like one of the worst options. 

They make it work. 

Somehow, Sam manhandles him into a flipped-over position, and Dean's thankful for all the blankets covering the couch—he can't imagine the cold, plasticy leather would feel good against his bare chest and dick. 

They've never done this, ever, but it feels natural, almost normal, it feels like what he's been waiting for, and it feels so fucking good. Sam's got his hands all over Dean, running up and down his sides and his stomach and his chest, playing around the edge and dipping under Dean's cast with a dance of fingertips along so sensitive skin. He grips Dean's hips as he slicks him up, slips a finger, then two, inside. 

Dean's distracted at first. He's on sensory overload and his mind's flooding with all the _what ifs_ and _what nows_. Sam's moving quick, though, hard and hurried, and when he finally slides home, Dean loses all sense of everything other than Sam. He can't feel the scratch of the blankets or the cool where the leather's found his shoulder, the too familiar musty stench of the cabin escapes him, the sinking sun visible through the kitchen window that's become a marker to him isn't even noticed, because all he can feel, all Dean can think is _Sam_. And when Sam slides a hand underneath Dean to grab his dick, starts jacking it slowly with just the right amount of pressure, Dean's lost to the world, his orgasm completely overtaking him and the feel of Sam following him down unlike anything he'd ever imagined this could be. 

Dean doesn't know how, but somehow Sam gets him flipped onto his side, back against the couch, Sam's body bracketing him in. They're a mess, covered in still-drying come and cooling-by-the-second sweat, but it's okay, more than okay, because Sam's awake and he's here and they've finally given into this thing that's been building up between them for _years_. 

 

When Dean wakes up at the beginning of the third week to find a note from Sam that says he'll be back in a few days, he can't help but worry that Sam's left because of what's happened, what's _been happening_ , between them.

If something happens to Sam because of this– If Sam's in the least amount of danger because Dean– Dean stops those thoughts in their tracks and grabs the phone.

Bobby's no help. He insists that Sam's fine, that the other shoe _hasn't_ dropped. But Bobby doesn't know what happened, so he's got no idea what's really going on. Dean's panicking. There's no way he's going to give it a couple of days. 

He sits on the couch to think for all of a minute, but most of it's in contemplation of the thing on his leg. Decided, he grabs the chainsaw.

**Author's Note:**

> • Written for [mistyzeo](http://mistyzeo.livejournal.com/profile)'s [prompt](http://ohsam.livejournal.com/340216.html?thread=2067960#t2067960) as part of the h/c fic challenge.  
> • More thank yous than even exist in the world to my betas, [akintay](http://akintay.livejournal.com/profile), [dear_tiger](http://dear_tiger.livejournal.com/profile), and [glovered](http://glovered.livejournal.com/profile). These ladies really helped me out with this, each in their own special and so much appreciated way. I owe each of them huge. Hugs and smishes, ladies. (Of course, any and all remaining mistakes are completely my own.)  
> • Figured I'd continue with my trend of stealing titles from The XX's lyrics—this one's from [Infinity](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JCBm5VbwJvY).


End file.
